THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   NIGHT 


The  Children  of  the  Night 

A  Book  of  Poems 

BY 

EDWIN   ARLINGTON   ROBINSON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1896  AND  1897, 
BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBIN 
SON.  ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


THE  8CRISNER  PRESS 


TO   THE   MEMORY 


C- 

OF 


MY   FATHER   AND    MOTHER 


783628 


CONTENTS 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  NIGHT ^JL1.} 

THREE  QUATRAINS H 

THE  WORLD l6 

»AN  OLD  STORY '7 

^BALLADE  OF  A  SHIP l8 

BALLADE  BY  THE  FIRE 20 

BALLADE  OF  BROKEN  FLUTES « 

BALLADE  OF  DEAD  FRIENDS 24 

HER  EYES *6 

'   Two  MEN ....  28 

VlLLANELLE    OF    CHANGE *9 

JOHN    EVERELDOWN •  3° 

LUKE  HAVERGAL 32 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 34 

i  RICHARD  CORY -35- 

Two  OCTAVES 36 

.  CALVARY •  3  8 

DEAR  FRIENDS  •  •  39 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

'  THE  STORY  OF  THE  ASHES  AND  THE  FLAME  .  40 

FOR  SOME  POEMS  BY  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  .  .  41 

'  AMARYLLIS 42 

KOSMOS 43 

ZOLA 44 

THE  PITY  OF  THE  LEAVES 45 

AARON  STARK 46 

THE  GARDEN 47 

i  CLIFF  KLINGENHAGEN 48 

CHARLES  CARVILLE'S  EYES -49 

THE  DEAD  VILLAGE 50 

BOSTON 51 

Two  SONNETS 54 

THE  CLERKS 54 

FLEMING  HELPHENSTINE 55 

»  FOR  A  BOOK  BY  THOMAS  HARDY 56 

THOMAS  HOOD 57 

THE  MIRACLE 58 

HORACE  TO  LEUCONOE 59 

REUBEN  BRIGHT 60 

THE  ALTAR 61 

•THE  TAVERN 6z 

-SONNET 63 

GEORGE  CRABBE  .  .  .  .  64 

REDO 65 

viii 


c 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ON  THE  NIGHT  OF  A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING  .  .  66 

SONNET 67 

/VERLAINE 68 

SONNET 69 

SUPREMACY 7° 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 71 

»WALT  WHITMAN 85 

THE  CHORUS  OF  OLD  MEN  IN  "^GEUS".  .  86 

THE  WILDERNESS 88 

OCTAVES 91 

•  Two  QUATRAINS 116 

ROMANCE 118 

THE  TORRENT 120 

•  I/  ENVOI                            121 


ix 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   NIGHT 

FOR  those  that  never  know  the  light, 

The  darkness  is  a  sullen  thing ; 
And  they,  the  Children  of  the  Night/  Y;'  •   • 

Seem  lost  in  Fortune's  winnowirg. . 

But  some  are  strong  and  some  are  weak,  — 
And  there 's  the  story.      House  and  home 

Are  shut  from  countless  hearts  that  seek 
World-refuge  that  will  never  come. 

And  if  there  be  no  other  life, 
And  if  there  be  no  other  chance 

To  weigh  their  sorrow  and  their  strife 
Than  in  the  scales  of  circumstance, 

*T  were  better,  ere  the  sun  go  down 

Upon  the  first  day  we  embark, 
In  life's  imbittered  sea  to  drown, 

Than  sail  forever  in  the  dark. 

But  if  there  be  a  soul  on  earth 
So  blinded  with  its  own  misuse 

Of  man's  revealed,  incessant  worth, 
Or  worn  with  anguish,  that  it  views 

No  light  but  for  a  mortal  eye, 

No  rest  but  of  a  mortal  sleep, 
No  God  but  in  a  prophet's  lie, 

No  faith  for  "  hwiest  doubt "  to  keep  ; 
li 


THE    CHILDREN    OF   THE   NIGHT 

If  there  be  nothing,  good  or  bad, 
But  chaos  for  a  soul  to  trust,  — 

God  cc-uat?  it  for  a  soul  gone  mad, 
And  if  God  be  God,  He  is  just. 

And  if  God  be  God,  He  is  Love  ; 

And  though  the  Dawn  be  still  so  dim, 
It  shows  us  we  have  played  enough 

With  creeds  that  make  a  fiend  of  Him. 

There  is  one  creed,  and  only  one, 
That  glorifies  God's  excellence  ; 

So  cherish,  that  His  will  be  done, 

The  common  creed  of  common  sense. 

It  is  the  crimson,  not  the  gray, 

That  charms  the  twilight  of  all  time ; 

It  is  the  promise  of  the  day 

That  makes  the  starry  sky  sublime ; 

It  is  the  faith  within  the  fear 

That  holds  us  to  the  life  we  curse ;  — — 
So  let  us  in  ourselves  revere 

The  Self  which  is  the  Universe ! 

Let  us,  the  Children  of  the  Night, 
Put  off  the  cloak  that  hides  the  scar ! 

Let  us  be  Children  of  the  Light, 
And  tell  the  ages  what  we  are ! 

12 


THREE   QUATRAINS 


As  long  as  Fame's  imperious  music  rings 

Will  poets  mock  it  with  crowned  words  august ; 

And  haggard  men  will  clamber  to  be  kings 
As  long  as  Glory  weighs  itself  in  dust. 


THREE   QUATRAINS 

II 

DRINK  to  the  splendor  of  the  unfulfilled, 
Nor  shudder  for  the  revels  that  are  done  : 

The  wines  that  flushed  Lucullus  are  all  spilled, 
The  strings  that  Nero  fingered  are  all  gone. 


»4 


THREE   QUATRAINS 

III 
WE  cannot  crown  ourselves  with  everything, 

Nor  can  we  coax  the  Fates  for  us  to  quarrel 
No  matter  what  we  are,  or  what  we  sing, 

Time  finds  a  withered  leaf  in  every  laurel. 


THE   WORLD 

SOME  are  the  brothers  of  all  humankind, 
And  own  them,  whatsoever  their  estate ; 

And  some,  for  sorrow  and  self-scorn,  are  blind 
With  enmity  for  man's  unguarded  fate. 

For  some  there  is  a  music  all  day  long 
Like  flutes  in  Paradise,  they  are  so  glad ; 

And  there  is  hell's  eternal  under-song 

Of  curses  and  the  cries  of  men  gone  mad. 

Some  say  the  Scheme  with  love  stands  luminous, 
Some  say  'twere  better  back  to  chaos  hurled  ; 

And  so  '  t  is  what  we  are  that  makes  for  us 
The  measure  and  the  meaning  of  the  world. 


16 


AN   OLD    STORY 

STRANGE  that  I  did  not  know  him  then, 

That  friend  of  mine  ! 
I  did  not  even  show  him  then 

One  friendly  sign  ; 

But  cursed  him  for  the  ways  he  had 

To  make  me  see 
My  envy  of  the  praise  he  had 

For  praising  me. 

I  would  have  rid  the  earth  of  him 

Once,  in  my  pride !  .   .   . 
I  never  knew  the  worth  of  him 

Until  he  died. 


BALLADE   OF   A   SHIP 

DOWN  by  the  flash  of  the  restless  water 

The  dim  White  Ship  like  a  white  bird  lay  ; 
Laughing  at  life  and  the  world  they  sought  her, 

And  out  she  swung  to  the  silvering  bay. 

Then  off  they  flew  on  their  roystering  way, 
And  the  keen  moon  fired  the  light  foam  flying 

Up  from  the  flood  where  the  faint  stars  play, 
And  the  bones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are  lying. 

'T  was  a  king's  fair  son  with  a  king's  fair  daughter, 
And  full  three  hundred  beside,  they  say,  — 

Revelling  on  for  the  lone,  cold  slaughter 

So  soon  to  seize  them  and  hide  them  for  aye  ; 

But  they   danced   and  they  drank  and   their  souls 

grew  gay, 

Nor  ever  they  knew  of  a  ghoul's  eye  spying 
Their  splendor  a  flickering  phantom  to  stray 

Where  the  bones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are  lying. 


18 


BALLADE    OF   A    SHIP 

Through  the  mist  of  a  drunken  dream  they  brought  he 

(This  wild  white  bird)  for  the  sea-fiend's  prey  : 
The  pitiless  reef  in  his  hard  clutch  caught  her, 

And  hurled  her  down  where  the  dead  men  stay. 

A  torturing  silence  of  wan  dismay  — 
Shrieks  and  curses  of  mad  souls  dying  — 

Then  down  they  sank  to  slumber  and  sway 
Where  the  bones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are  lying. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  do  you  sleep  to  the  sound  alway 

Of  the  mournful  surge  and  the  sea-birds'  crying  ?  — 
Or  does  love  still  shudder  and  steel  still  slay, 

Where  the  bones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are  lying  ? 


'9 


BALLADE   BY   THE   FIRE 

SLOWLY  I  smoke  and  hug  my  knee, 
The  while  a  witless  masquerade 

Of  things  that  only  children  see 
Floats  in  a  mist  of  light  and  shade : 
They  pass,  a  flimsy  cavalcade, 

And  with  a  weak,  remindful  glow, 
The  falling  embers  break  and  fade, 

As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

Then,  with  a  melancholy  glee 

To  think  where  once  my  fancy  strayed, 
I  muse  on  what  the  years  may  be 

Whose  coming  tales  are  all  unsaid, 

Till  tongs  and  shovel,  snugly  laid 
Within  their  shadowed  niches,  grow 

By  grim  degrees  to  pick  and  spade, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 


BALLADE   BY   THE    FIRE 

But  then,  what  though  the  mystic  Three 

Around  me  ply  their  merry  trade  ?  — 
And  Charon  soon  may  carry  me 

Across  the  gloomy  Stygian  glade?  — 

Be  up,  my  soul !  nor  be  afraid 
Of  what  some  unborn  year  may  show; 

But  mind  your  human  debts  are  paid, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

ENVOY 

Life  is  the  game  that  must  be  played  : 

This  truth  at  least,  good  friend,  we  know  ; 

So  live  and  laugh,  nor  be  dismayed 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go, 


21 


BALLADE    OF   BROKEN   FLUTES 

(To  A.  T.  SCHUMANN.) 

IN  dreams  I  crossed  a  barren  land, 

A  land  of  ruin,  far  away  ; 
Around  me  hung  on  every  hand 

A  deathful  stillness  of  decay ; 

And  silent,  as  in  bleak  dismay 
That  song  should  thus  forsaken  be, 

On  that  forgotten  ground  there  lay 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

The  forest  that  was  all  so  grand 

When  pipes  and  tabors  had  their  sway 
Stood  leafless  now,  a  ghostly  band 

Of  skeletons  in  cold  array. 

A  lonely  surge  of  ancient  spray 
Told  of  an  unforgetful  sea, 

But  iron  blows  had  hushed  for  aye 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 


22 


BALLADE   OF   BROKEN    FLUTES 

No  more  by  summer  breezes  fanned, 

The  place  was  desolate  and  gray  ; 
But  still  my  dream  was  to  command 

New  life  into  that  shrunken  clay. 

I  tried  it.      Yes,  you  scan  to-day, 
With  uncommiserating  glee, 

The  songs  of  one  who  strove  to  play 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

ENVOY 

So,  Rock,  I  join  the  common  fray, 

To  fight  where  Mammon  may  decree ; 

And  leave,  to  crumble  as  they  may, 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 


BALLADE   OF   DEAD   FRIENDS 

As  we  the  withered  ferns 

By  the  roadway  lying, 
Time,  the  jester,  spurns 

All  our  prayers  and  prying  — 

All  our  tears  and  sighing, 
Sorrow,  change,  and  woe  — 

All  our  where-and-whying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 

Life  awakes  and  burns, 

Age  and  death  defying, 
Till  at  last  it  learns 

All  but  Love  is  dying ; 

Love 's  the  trade  we  're  plying, 
God  has  willed  it  so ; 

Shrouds  are  what  we're  buying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 


BALLADE   OF   DEAD    FRIENDS 

Man  forever  yearns 

For  the  thing  that 's  flying. 
Everywhere  he  turns, 

Men  to  dust  are  drying,  — 

Dust  that  wanders,  eying 
(With  eyes  that  hardly  glow) 

New  faces,  dimly  spying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 

ENVOY 

And  thus  we  all  are  nighing 
The  truth  we  fear  to  know: 

Death  will  end  our  crying 

For  friends  that  come  and  go. 


HER   EYES 

UP  from  the  street  and  the  crowds  that  went, 

Morning  and  midnight,  to  and  fro, 
Still  was  the  room  where  his  days  he  spent, 

And  the  stars  were  bleak,  and  the  nights  were  slow. 

Year  after  year,  with  his  dream  shut  fast, 

He  suffered  and  strove  till  his  eyes  were  dim, 

For  the  love  that  his  brushes  had  earned  at  last,  — 
And  the  whole  world  rang  with  the  praise  of  him. 

But  he  cloaked  his  triumph,  and  searched,  instead, 
Till  his  cheeks  were  sere  and  his  hairs  were  gray. 

"  There  are  women  enough,  God  knows,' '  he  said.  .  .  . 
"  There  are  stars  enough  —  when  the  sun  's  away." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  same  still  room 
That  had  held  his  dream  in  the  long  ago, 

When  he  buried  his  days  in  a  nameless  tomb, 

And  the  stars  were  bleak,  and  the  nights  were  slow. 

And  a  passionate  humor  seized  him  there  — 
Seized  him  and  held  him  until  there  grew 

Like  life  on  his  canvas,  glowing  and  fair, 
A  perilous  face  —  and  an  angel's,  too. 


HER    EYES 

Angel  and  maiden,  and  all  in  one,  — 

All  but  the  eyes.  —  They  were  there,  but  yet 

They  seemed  somehow  like  a  soul  half  done. 
What  was  the  matter  ?  Did  God  forget  ?  .  .  . 

But  he  wrought  them  at  last  with  a  skill  so  sure 
That  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  deathless  woman, 

With  a  gleam  of  heaven  to  make  them  pure, 
And  a  glimmer  of  hell  to  make  them  human. 

God  never  forgets.  —  And  he  worships  her 
There  in  that  same  still  room  of  his, 

For  his  wife,  and  his  constant  arbiter 

Of  the  world  that  was  and  the  world  that  is. 

And  he  wonders  yet  what  her  love  could  be 
To  punish  him  after  that  strife  so  grim  ; 

But  the  longer  he  lives  with  her  eyes  to  see, 
The  plainer  it  all  comes  back  to  him. 


TWO    MEN 

THERE  be  two  men  of  all  mankind 
That  I  should  like  to  know  about ; 

But  search  and  question  where  I  will, 
I  cannot  ever  find  them  out. 

Melchizedek  he  praised  the  Lord, 
And  gave  some  wine  to  Abraham  ; 

But  who  can  tell  what  else  he  did 
Must  be  more  learned  than  I  am. 

Ucalegon  he  lost  his  house 

When  Agamemnon  came  to  Troy ; 
But  who  can  tell  me  who  he  was  — 

I  '11  pray  the  gods  to  give  him  joy. 

There  be  two  men  of  all  mankind 
That  I  'm  forever  thinking  on  : 

They  chase  me  everywhere  I  go,  — 
Melchizedek,  Ucalegon. 


28 


VILLANELLE   OF   CHANGE 

SINCE  Persia  fell  at  Marathon, 

The  yellow  years  have  gathered  fast : 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 

And  yet  (they  say)  the  place  will  don 

A  phantom  fury'  of  the  past, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon  ; 

And  as  of  old,  when  Helicon 

Trembled  and  swayed  with  rapture  vast 
(Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone), 

This  ancient  plain,  when  night  comes  on, 

Shakes  to  a  ghostly  battle-blast, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon. 

But  into  soundless  Acheron 

The  glory  of  Greek  shame  was  cast  : 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone, 

The  suns  of  Hellas  have  all  shone, 

The  first  has  fallen  to  the  last :  — 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon, 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 


29 


JOHN    EVER¥LDOWN 

"  WHERE  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night,  — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ? 

There  's  never  the  sign  of  a  star  in  sight, 

Nor  a  lamp  that's  nearer  than  Tilbury  Town. 

Why  do  you  stare  as  a  dead  man  might  ? 

Where  are  you  pointing  away  from  the  light  ? 

And  where  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night,  — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ? ' ' 

"  Right  through  the  forest,  where  none  can  see, 
There's  where  I'm  going,  to  Tilbury  Town. 

The  men  are  asleep,  —  or  awake,  may  be,  — 
But  the  women  are  calling  John  Evereldown. 

Ever  and  ever  they  call  for  me, 

And  while  they  call  can  a  man  be  free  ? 

So  right  through  the  forest,  where  none  can  see, 
There's  where  I'm  going,  to  Tilbury  Town.'* 


30 


JOHN    EVERELDOWN 

"  But  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late,  — 
Why  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ? 

Though  the  road  be  smooth  and  the  path  be  straight, 
There  are  two  long  leagues  to  Tilbury  Town. 

Come  in  by  the  fire,  old  man,  and  wait  ! 

Why  do  you  chatter  out  there  by  the  gate  ? 

And  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late,  — 
Why  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ? " 

"  I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call,  — 
That 's  why  I  'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 
God  knows  if  I  pray  to  be  done  with  it  all, 

But  God  is  no  friend  to  John  Evereldown. 
So  the  clouds  may  come  and  the  rain  may  fall, 
The  shadows  may  creep  and  the  dead  men  crawl, — 
But  I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call, 

And  that 's  why  I  'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town." 


LUKE  HAVERGAL 

Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal, — 

There  where  the  vines  cling  crimson  on  the  wall,— - 

And  in  the  twilight  wait  for  what  will  come. 

The  wind  will  moan,  the  leaves  will  whisper  some  — 

Whisper  of  her,  and  strike  you  as  they  fall ; 

But  go,  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call. 

Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal  — 

Luke  Havergal. 

No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies 
To  rift  the  fiery  night  that 's  in  your  eyes ; 
But  there,  where  western  glooms  are  gathering, 
The  dark  will  end  the  dark,  if  anything : 
God  slays  Himself  with  every  leaf  that  flies, 
And  hell  is  more  than  half  of  paradise. 
No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies  — 
In  eastern  skies. 


LUKE   HAVERGAL 

Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this,  — 
Out  of  a  grave  1  come  to  quench  the  kiss 
That  flames  upon  your  forehead  with  a  glow 
That  blinds  you  to  the  way  that  you  must  go. 
Yes,  there  is  yet  one  way  to  where  she  is,  — 
Bitter,  but  one  that  faith  can  never  miss. 
Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this  — 
To  tell  you  this. 

There  is  the  v/estern  gate,  Luke  Havergal, 
There  are  the  crimson  leaves  upon  the  wall. 
Go,  —  for  the  winds  are  tearing  them  away,  — 
Nor  think  to  riddle  the  dead  words  they  say, 
Nor  any  more  to  feel  them  as  they  fall  ; 
But  go !  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call. 
There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal—- 
Luke  Havergal. 


33 


THE   HOUSE    ON   THE    HILL 

THEY  are  all  gone  away, 

The  House  is  shut  and  still, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Through  broken  walls  and  gray 

The  winds  blow  bleak  and  shrill : 
They  are  all  gone  away. 

Nor  is  there  one  to-day 

To  speak  them  good  or  ill : 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Why  is  it  then  we  stray 

Around  that  sunken  sill  ? 
They  are  all  gone  away, 

And  our  poor  fancy-play 

For  them  is  wasted  skill : 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

There  is  ruin  and  decay 

In  the  House  on  the  Hill : 
They  are  all  gone  away, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 


RICHARD    CORY 

WHENEVER  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 
We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him  : 
He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 
Clean  favored,  and  imperially  slim. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 

And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked ; 

But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 

"Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich,  —  yes,  richer  than  a  king,  — 
And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace : 
In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything 
To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  in  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat,  and  cursed  the  bread ; 
And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 


TWO    OCTAVES 

I 

NOT  by  the  grief  that  stuns  and  overwhelms 
All  outward  recognition  of  revealed 
And  righteous  omnipresence  are  the  days 
Of  most  of  us  affrighted  and  diseased, 
But  rather  by  the  common  snarls  of  life 
That  come  to  test  us  and  to  strengthen  us 
In  this  the  prentice-age  of  discontent, 
Rebelliousness,  faint-heartedness,  and  shame, 


I 


TWO    OCTAVES 

II 

WHEN  through  hot  fog  the  fulgid  sun  looks  down 
Upon  a  stagnant  earth  where  listless  men 
Laboriously  dawdle,  curse,  and  sweat, 
Disqualified,  unsatisfied,  inert,  — 
It  seems  to  me  somehow  that  God  himself 
Scans  with  a  close  reproach  what  I  have  done, 
Counts  with  an  unphrased  patience  my  arrears, 
And  fathoms  my  unprofitable  thoughts. 


CALVARY 

FRIENDLESS  and  faint,  with  martyred  steps  and  slow, 

Faint  for  the  flesh,  but  for  the  spirit  free, 

Stung  by  the  mob  that  came  to  see  the  show, 

The  Master  toiled  along  to  Calvary  ; 

We  gibed  him,  as  he  went,  with  houndish  glee, 

Till  his  dimmed  eyes  for  us  did  overflow  ; 

We  cursed  his  vengeless  hands  thrice  wretchedly,  — 

And  this  was  nineteen  hundred  years  ago. 

But  after  nineteen  hundred  years  the  shame 
Still  clings,  and  we  have  not  made  good  the  loss 
That  outraged  faith  has  entered  in  his  name. 
Ah,  when  shall  come  love's  courage  to  be  strong  ! 
Tell  me,  O  Lord  —  tell  me,  O  Lord,  how  long 
Are  we  to  keep  Christ  writhing  on  the  cross ! 


DEAR   FRIENDS 

DEAR  friends,  reproach  me  not  for  what  I  do, 

Nor  counsel  me,  nor  pity  me  ;  nor  say 

That  I  am  wearing  half  my  life  away 

For  bubble-work  that  only  fools  pursue. 

And  if  my  bubbles  be  too  small  for  you, 

Blow  bigger  then  your  own  :   the  games  we  play 

To  fill  the  frittered  minutes  of  a  day, 

Good  glasses  are  to  read  the  spirit  through. 

And  whoso  reads  may  get  him  some  shrewd  skill  ; 

And  some  unprofitable  scorn  resign, 

To  praise  the  very  thing  that  he  deplores  ; 

So,  friends  (dear  friends),  remember,  if  you  will, 

The  shame  I  win  for  singing  is  all  mine, 

The  gold  I  miss  for  dreaming  is  all  yours. 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   ASHES   AND 
THE   FLAME 

No  matter  why,  nor  whence,  nor  when  she  came, 
There  was  her  place.      No  matter  what  men  said, 
No  matter  what  she  was  ;  living  or  dead, 
Faithful  or  not,  he  loved  her  all  the  same. 
The  story  was  as  old  as  human  shame, 
But  ever  since  that  lonely  night  she  fled, 
With  books  to  blind  him,  he  had  only  read 
The  story  of  the  ashes  and  the  flame. 

There  she  was  always  coming  pretty  soon 
To  fool  him  back,  with  penitent  scared  eyes 
That  had  in  them  the  laughter  of  the  moon 
For  baffled  lovers,  and  to  make  him  think  — 
Before  she  gave  him  time  enough  to  wink  — 
Sin's  kisses  were  the  keys  to  Paradise. 


40 


FOR   SOME   POEMS   BY   MATTHEW 
ARNOLD 

SWEEPING  the  chords  of  Hellas  with  firm  hand, 

He  wakes  lost  echoes  from  song's  classic  shore, 

And  brings  their  crystal  cadence  back  once  more 

To  touch  the  clouds  and  sorrows  of  a  land 

Where  God's  truth,  cramped  and  fettered  with  a  band 

Of  iron  creeds,  he  cheers  with  golden  lore 

Of  heroes  and  the  men  that  long  before 

Wrought  the  romance  of  ages  yet  unscanned. 

Still  does  a  cry  through  sad  Valhalla  go 

For  Balder,  pierced  with  Lok's  unhappy  spray  — 

For  Balder,  all  but  spared  by  1'rea's  charms ; 

And  still  does  art's  imperial  vista  show, 

On  the  hushed  sands  of  Oxus,  far  away, 

Young  Sohrab  dying  in  his  father's  arms. 


AMARYLLIS 

ONCE,  when  I  wandered  in  the  woods  alone, 

An  old  man  tottered  up  to  me  and  said, 

"  Come,  friend,  and  see  the  grave  that  I  have  made 

For  Amaryllis."      There  was  in  the  tone 

Of  his  complaint  such  quaver  and  such  moan 

That  I  took  pity  on  him  and  obeyed, 

And  long  stood  looking  where  his  hands  had  laid 

An  ancient  woman,  shrunk  to  skin  and  bone. 

Far  out  beyond  the  forest  I  could  hear 
The  calling  of  loud  progress,  and  the  bold 
Incessant  scream  of  commerce  ringing  clear; 
But  though  the  trumpets  of  the  world  were  glad, 
It  made  me  lonely  and  it  made  me  sad 
To  think  that  Amaryllis  had  grown  old. 


KOSMOS 

AH,  — 'shuddering  men  that  falter  and  shrink  so 
To  look  on  death,  —  what  were  the  days  we  live, 
Where  life  is  half  a  struggle  to  forgive, 
But  for  the  love  that  finds  us  when  we  go  ? 
Is  God  a  jester  ?     Does  he  laugh  and  throw 
Poor  branded  wretches  here  to  sweat  and  strive 
For  some  vague  end  that  never  shall  arrive  ? 
And  is  He  not  yet  weary  of  the  show  ? 

Think  of  it,  all  ye  millions  that  have  planned, 

And  only  planned,  the  largess  of  hard  youth  ! 

Think  of  it,  all  ye  builders  on  the  sand, 

Whose  works  are  down  !  —  Is  love  so  small,  forsooth  ? 

Be  brave !      To-morrow  you  will  understand 

The  doubt,  the  pain,  the  triumph,  and  the  Truth ! 


ZOLA 

BECAUSE  he  puts  the  compromising  chart  * 

Of  hell  before  your  eyes,  you  are  afraid ; 
Because  he  counts  the  price  that  you  have  paid 
For  innocence,  and  counts  it  from  the  start, 
You  loathe  him.      But  he  sees  the  human  heart 
Of  God  meanwhile,  and  in  God's  hand  has  weighed 
Your  squeamish  and  emasculate  crusade 
Against  the  grim  dominion  of  his  art. 

Never  until  we  conquer  the  uncouth 
Connivings  of  our  shamed  indifference 
(We  call  it  Christian  faith  !)    are  wre  to  scan 
The  racked  and  shrieking  hideousness  of  Truth 
To  find,  in  hate's  polluted  self-defence 
Throbbing,  the  pulse,  the  divine  heart  of  man. 


44 


THE   PITY   OF   THE    LEAVES 


across  the  cold  November  moors, 
Loud  with  ancestral  shame  there  came  the  bleak 
Sad  wind  that  shrieked,  and  answered  with  a  shriek, 
Reverberant  through  lonely  corridors. 
The  old  man  heard  it  ;  and  he  heard,  perforce, 
Words  out  of  lips  that  were  no  more  to  speak  — 
Words  of  the  past  that  shook  the  old  man's  cheek 
Like  dead,  remembered  footsteps  on  old  floors. 

And  then  there  were  the  leaves  that  plagued  him  so  ! 
The  brown,  thin  leaves  that  on  the  stones  outside 
Skipped  with  a  freezing  whisper.      Now  and  then 
They  stopped,  and  stayed  there  —  just  to  let  him  know 
How  dead  they  were  ;  but  if  the  old  man  cried, 
They  fluttered  off  like  withered  souls  of  men. 


AARON   STARK 

WITHAL  a  meagre  man  was  Aaron  Stark,  —  .«* 
Cursed  and  unkempt,  shrewd,  shrivelled,  and  morose. 
A  miser  was  he,  with  a  miser's  nose, 
And  eyes  like  little  dollars  in  the  dark. 
His  thin,  pinched  mouth  was  nothing  but  a  mark ; 
And  when  he  spoke  there  came  like  sullen  blows 
Through  scattered  fangs  a  few  snarled  words  and  close, 
As  if  a  cur  were  chary  of  its  bark. 

Glad  for  the  murmur  of  his  hard  renown, 

Year  after  year  he  shambled  through  the  town,  — 

A  loveless  exile  moving  with  a  staff; 

And  oftentimes  there  crept  into  his  ears  ' 

A  sound  of  alien  pity,  touched  with  tears,  — 

And  then  (and  only  then)  did  Aaron  laugh. 


THE   GARDEN 

THERE  is  a  fenceless  garden  overgrown 
With  buds  and  blossoms  and  all  sorts  of  leaves  ; 
And  once,  among  the  roses  and  the  sheaves, 
The  Gardener  and  I  were  there  alone. 
He  led  me  to  the  plot  where  I  had  thrown 
The  fennel  of  my  days  on  wasted  ground, 
And  in  that  riot  of  sad  weeds  I  found 
The  fruitage  of  a  life  that  was  my  own. 

My  life  !     Ah,  yes,  there  was  my  life,  indeed  ' 
And  there  were  all  the  lives  of  humankind  ; 
And  they  were  like  a  book  that  I  could  read, 
Whose  every  leaf,  miraculously  signed, 
Outrolled  itself  from  Thought's  eternal  seed, 
Love-rooted  in  God's  garden  of  the  mind. 


CLIFF   KLINGENHAGEN 

CLIFF  KLINGENHAGEN  had  me  in  to  dine 
With  him  one  day ;  and  after  soup  and  meat, 
And  all  the  other  things  there  were  to  eat, 
Cliff  took  two  glasses  and  filled  one  with  wine 
And  one  with  wormwood.      Then,  without  a  sign 
For  me  to  choose  at  all,  he  took  the  draught 
Of  bitterness  himself,  and  lightly  quaffed 
It  off,  and  said  the  other  one  was  mine. 

And  when  I  asked  him  what  the  deuce  he  meant 

By  doing  that,  he  only  looked  at  me 

And  grinned,  and  said  it  was  a  way  of  his. 

And  though  I  know  the  fellow,  I  have  spent 

Long  time  a-wondering  when  I  shall  be 

As  happy  as  Cliff  Klingenhagen  is. 


CHARLES   CARVILLE'S   EYES 

A  MELANCHOLY  face  Charles  Carville  had, 

But  not  so  melancholy  as  it  seemed,  — 

When  once  you  knew  him,  —  for  his  mouth  redeemed 

His  insufficient  eyes,  forever  sad  : 

In  them  there  was  no  life-glimpse,  good  or  bad,  — 

Nor  joy  nor  passion  in  them  ever  gleamed ; 

His  mouth  was  all  of  him  that  ever  beamed, 

His  eyes  were  sorry,  but  his  mouth  was  glad. 

He  never  was  a  fellow  that  said  much, 

And  half  of  what  he  did  say  was  not  heard 

By  many  of  us  :  we  were  out  of  touch 

With  all  his  whims  and  all  his  theories 

Till  he  was  dead,  so  those  blank  eyes  of  his 

Might  speak  them.    Then  we  heard  them,  every  word. 


49 


THE   DEAD   VILLAGE 

HERE  there  is  death.     But  even  here,  they  say,  — 
Here  where  the  dull  sun  shines  this  afternoon 
As  desolate  as  ever  the  dead  moon 
Did  glimmer  on  dead  Sardis,  —  men  were  gay  ; 
And  there  were  little  children  here  to  play, 
With  small  soft  hands  that  once  did  keep  in  tune 
The  strings  that  stretch  from  heaven,  till  too  soon 
The  change  came,  and  the  music  passed  away. 

Now  there  is  nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  things,  — 

No  life,  no  love,  no  children,  and  no  men ; 

And  over  the  forgotten  place  there  clings 

The  strange  and  unrememberable  light 

That  is  in  dreams.      The  music  failed,  and  then 

God  frowned,  and  shut  the  village  from  His  sight. 


BOSTON 

MY  northern  pines  are  good  enough  for  me, 
But  there's  a  town  my  memory  uprears  — 
A  town  that  always  like  a  friend  appears, 
And  always  in  the  sunrise  by  the  sea. 
And  over  it,  somehow,  there  seems  to  be 
A  downward  flash  of  something  new  and  fierce, 
That  ever  strives  to  clear,  but  never  clears 
The  dimness  of  a  charmed  antiquity. 


TWO    SONNETS 


JUST  as  I  wonder  at  the  twofold  screen 
Of  twisted  innocence  that  you  would  plait 
For  eyes  that  uncourageously  await 
The  coming  of  a  kingdom  that  has  been, 
So  do  I  wonder  what  God's  love  can  mean 
To  you  that  all  so  strangely  estimate 
The  purpose  and  the  consequent  estate 
Of  one  short  shuddering  step  to  the  Unseen. 

No,  I  have  not  your  backward  faith  to  shrink 
Lone-faring  from  the  doorway  of  God's  home 
To  find  Him  in  the  names  of  buried  men  ; 
Nor  your  ingenious  recreance  to  think 
We  cherish,  in  the  life  that  is  to  come, 
The  scattered  features  of  dead  friends  again. 


TWO   SONNETS 

II 

NEVER  until  our  souls  are  strong  enough 
To  plunge  into  the  crater  of  the  Scheme  — 
Triumphant  in  the  flash  there  to  redeem 
Love's  handsel  and  forevermore  to  slough, 
Like  cerements  at  a  played-out  masque,  the  rough 
And  reptile  skins  of  us  whereon  we  set 
The  stigma  of  scared  years  —  are  we  to  get 
Where  atoms  and  the  ages  are  one  stuff. 

Nor  ever  shall  we  know  the  cursed  waste 
Of  life  in  the  beneficence  divine 
Of  starlight  and  of  sunlight  and  soul-shine 
That  we  have  squandered  in  sin's  frail  distress, 
Till  we  have  drunk,  and  trembled  at  the  taste, 
The  mead  of  Thought's  prophetic  endlessness. 


53 


THE   CLERKS 

I  DID  not  think  that  I  should  find  them  there 
When  I  came  back  again ;  but  there  they  stood, 
As  in  the  days  they  dreamed  of  when  young  blood 
Was  in  their  cheeks  and  women  called  them  fair. 
Be  sure,  they  met  me  with  an  ancient  air,  — 
And  yes,  there  was  a  shop-worn  brotherhood 
About  them  ;  but  the  men  were  just  as  good, 
And  just  as  human  as  they  ever  were. 

And  you  that  ache  so  much  to  be  sublime, 
And  you  that  feed  yourselves  with  your  descent, 
What  comes  of  all  your  visions  and  your  fears? 
Poets  and  kings  are  but  the  clerks  of  Time, 
Tiering  the  same  dull  webs  of  discontent, 
Clipping  the  same  sad  alnage  of  the  years. 


FLEMING    HfcLPHENSTlNE 

AT  first  I  thought  there  was  a  superfine 

Persuasion  in  his  face  ;  but  the  free  glow 

That  filled  it  when  he  stopped  and  cried,  "  Hollo  !  '* 

Shone  joyously,  and  so  I  let  it  shine. 

He  said  his  name  was  Fleming  Helphenstine, 

But  be  that  as  it  may  ;  —  I  only  know 

He  talked  of  this  and  that  and  So-and-So, 

And  laughed  and  chaffed  like  any  friend  of  mine. 

But  soon,  with  a  queer,  quick  frown,  he  looked  at  me, 
And  I  looked  hard  at  him  ;  and  there  we  gazed 
With  a  strained  shame  that  made  us  cringe  and  wince : 
Then,  with  a  wordless  clogged  apology 
That  sounded  half  confused  and  half  amazed, 
He  dodged,  —  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 


55 


FOR  A  BOOK  BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

WITH  searching  feet,  through  dark  circuitous  ways, 
I  plunged  and  stumbled ;  round  me,  far  and  near, 
Quaint  hordes  of  eyeless  phantoms  did  appear, 
Twisting  and  turning  in  a  bootless  chase,  — 
When,  like  an  exile  given  by  God's  grace 
To  feel  once  more  a  human  atmosphere, 
I  caught  the  world's  first  murmur,  large  and  clear, 
Flung  from  a  singing  river's  endless  race. 

Then,  through  a  magic  twilight  from  below, 

I  heard  its  grand  sad  song  as  in  a  dream : 

Life's  wild  infinity  of  mirth  and  woe 

It  sang  me  ;  and,  with  many  a  changing  gleam, 

Across  the  music  of  its  onward  flow 

I  saw  the  cottage  lights  of  Wessex  beam. 


THOMAS    HOOD 

THE  man  who  cloaked  his  bitterness  within 
This  winding-sheet  of  puns  and  pleasantries, 
God  never  gave  to  look  with  common  eyes 
Upon  a  world  of  anguish  and  of  sin  : 
His  brother  was  the  branded  man  of  Lynn  ; 
And  there  are  woven  with  his  jollities 
The  nameless  and  eternal  tragedies 
That  render  hope  and  hopelessness  akin. 

We  laugh,  and  crown  him  ;  but  anon  we  feel 
A  still  chord  sorrow-swept,  —  a  weird  unrest ; 
And  thin  dim  shadows  home  to  midnight  steal, 
As  if  the  very  ghost  of  mirth  were  dead  — 
As  if  the  joys  of  time  to  dreams  had  fled, 
Or  sailed  away  with  Ines  to  the  West. 


THE   MIRACLE 

"  DEAR  brother,  dearest  friend,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  you  shall  see  no  more  this  face  of  mine, 
Let  nothing  but  red  roses  be  the  sign 
Of  the  white  life  I  lost  for  him,"  she  said  ; 
"No,  do  not  curse  him,  —  pity  him  instead; 
Forgive  him  !  —  forgive  me  !  .   .   God's  anodyne 
For  human  hate  is  pity  ;  and  the  wine 
That  makes  men  wise,  forgiveness.      I  have  read 
Love's  message  in  love's  murder,  and  I  die." 
And  so  they  laid  her  just  where  she  would  lie,  — 
Under  red  roses.      Red  they  bloomed  and  fell  ; 
But  when  flushed  autumn  and  the  snows  went  by, 
And  spring  came,  — lo,  from  every  bud's  green  shell 
Burst  a  white  blossom.  —  Can  love  reason  why  ? 


HORACE   TO    LEUCONOE 

I  PRAY  you  not,  Leuconoe,  to  pore 
With  unpermitted  eyes  on  what  may  be 
Appointed  by  the  gods  for  you  and  me, 
Nor  on  Chaldean  figures  any  more. 
'Twere  infinitely  better  to  implore 
The  present  only  :  —  whether  Jove  decree 
More  winters  yet  to  come,  or  whether  he 
Make  even  this,  whose  hard,  wave-eaten  shore 
Shatters  the  Tuscan  seas  to-day,  the  last  — 
Be  wise  withal,  and  rack  your  wine,  nor  fill 
Your  bosom  with  large  hopes  ;  for  while  I  sing, 
The  envious  close  of  time  is  narrowing ;  — 
So  seize  the  day,  —  or  ever  it  be  past,  — 
And  let  the  morrow  come  for  what  it  will. 


S9 


REUBEN    BRIGHT 

BECAUSE  he  was  a  butcher  and  thereby 

Did  earn  an  honest  living  (and  did  right), 

I  would  not  have  you  think  that  Reuben  Bright 

Was  any  more  a  brute  than  you  or  I ; 

For  when  they  told  him  that  his  wife  must  die, 

He  stared  at  them,  and  shook  with  grief  and  fright, 

And  cried  like  a  great  baby  half  that  night, 

And  made  the  women  cry  to  see  him  cry. 

And  after  she  was  dead,  and  he  had  paid 

The  singers  and  the  sexton  and  the  rest, 

He  packed  a  lot  of  things  that  she  had  made 

Most  mournfully  away  in  an  old  chest 

Of  hers,  and  put  some  chopped- up  cedar  boughs 

In  with  them,  and  tore  down  the  slaughter-house. 


00 


THE    ALTAR 

ALONE,  remote,  nor  witting  where  I  went, 
I  found  an  altar  builded  in  a  dream  — 
A  fiery  place,  whereof  there  was  a  gleam 
So  swift,  so  searching,  and  so  eloquent 
Of  upward  promise,  that  love's  murmur,  blent 
With  sorrow's  warning,  gave  but  a  supreme 
Unending  impulse  to  that  human  stream 
Whose  flood  was  all  for  the  flame's  fury  bent. 

Alas !  I  said,  —  the  world  is  in  the  wrong. 

But  the  same  quenchless  fever  of  unrest 

That  thrilled  the  foremost  of  that  martyred  throng 

Thrilled  me,  and  I  awoke  .   .    .   and  was  the  same 

Bewildered  insect  plunging  for  the  flame 

That  burns,  and  must  burn  somehow  for  the  best. 


61 


THE   TAVERN 

WHENEVER  I  go  by  there  nowadays 

And  look  at  the  rank  weeds  and  the  strange  grass, 

The  torn  blue  curtains  and  the  broken  glass, 

I  seem  to  be  afraid  of  the  old  place  ; 

And  something  stiffens  up  and  down  my  face, 

For  all  the  world  as  if  I  saw  the  ghost 

Of  old  Ham  Amory,  the  murdered  host, 

With  his  dead  eyes  turned  on  me  all  aglaze. 

The  Tavern  has  a  story,  but  no  man 
Can  tell  us  what  it  is.      We  only  know 
That  once  long  after  midnight,  years  ago, 
A  stranger  galloped  up  from  Tilbury  Town, 
Who  brushed,  and  scared,  and  all  but  overran 
That  skirt-crazed  reprobate,  John  Evereldown. 


62 


SONNET 

OH  for  a  poet  —  for  a  beacon  bright 
To  rift  this  changeless  glimmer  of  dead  gray ; 
To  spirit  back  the  Muses,  long  astray, 
And  flush  Parnassus  with  a  newer  light ; 
To  put  these  little  sonnet-men  to  flight 
Who  fashion,  in  a  shrewd,  mechanic  way, 
Songs  without  souls,  that  flicker  for  a  day, 
To  vanish  in  irrevocable  night. 

What  does  it  mean,  this  barren  age  of  ours? 
Here  are  the  men,  the  women,  and  the  flowers, 
The  seasons,  and  the  sunset,  as  before. 
What  does  it  mean  ?     Shall  not  one  bard  arise 
To  wrench  one  banner  from  the  western  skies, 
And  mark  it  with  his  name  forevermore  ? 


GEORGE   CRABBE 

GIVE  him  the  darkest  inch  your  shelf  allows, 

Hide  him  in  lonely  garrets,  if  you  will,  — 

But  his  hard,  human  pulse  is  throbbing  still 

With  the  sure  strength  that  fearless  truth  endows. 

In  spite  of  all  fine  science  disavows, 

Of  his  plain  excellence  and  stubborn  skill 

There  yet  remains  what  fashion  cannot  kill, 

Though  years  have  thinned  the  laurel  from  his  brows. 

Whether  or  not  we  read  him,  we  can  feel 
From  time  to  time  the  vigor  of  his  name 
Against  us  like  a  finger  for  the  shame 
And  emptiness  of  what  our  souls  reveal 
In  books  that  are  as  altars  where  we  kneel 
To  consecrate  the  flicker,  not  the  flame. 


CREDO 

I  CANNOT  find  my  way:  there  is  no  star 
In  all  the  shrouded  heavens  anywhere ; 
And  there  is  not  a  whisper  in  the  air 
Of  any  living  voice  but  one  so  far 
That  I  can  hear  it  only  as  a  bar 
Of  lost,  imperial  music,  played  when  fair 
And  angel  fingers  wove,  and  unaware, 
Dead  leaves  to  garlands  where  no  roses  are. 

No,  there  is  not  a  glimmer,  nor  a  call, 

For  one  that  welcomes,  welcomes  when  he  fears. 

The  black  and  awful  chaos  of  the  night  ; 

For  through  it  all, —  above,  beyond  it  all, — 

I  know  the  far-sent  message  of  the  years, 

I  feel  the  coming  glory  of  the  Light ! 


ON   THE   NIGHT    OF  A  FRIEND'S 
WEDDING 

IF  ever  I  am  old,  and  all  alone, 
I  shall  have  killed  one  grief,  at  any  rate ; 
For  then,  thank  God,  I  shall  not  have  to  wait 
Much  longer  for  the  sheaves  that  I  have  sown 
The  devil  only  knows  what  I  have  done, 
But  here  I  am,  and  here  are  six  or  eight 
Good  friends,  who  most  ingenuously  prate 
About  my  songs  to  such  and  such  a  one. 

But  everything  is  all  askew  to-night,  — 
As  if  the  time  were  come,  or  almost  come. 
For  their  untenanted  mirage  of  me 
To  lose  itself  and  crumble  out  of  sight, 
Like  a  tall  ship  that  floats  above  the  foam 
A  little  while,  and  then  breaks  utterly. 


SONNET 

THE  master  and  the  slave  go  hand  in  hand, 
Though  touch  be  lost.      The  poet  is  a  slave, 
And  there  be  kings  do  sorrowfully  crave 
The  joyance  that  a  scullion  may  command. 
But,  ah,  the  sonnet-slave  must  understand 
The  mission  of  his  bondage,  or  the  grave 
May  clasp  his  bones,  or  ever  he  shall  save 
The  perfect  word  that  is  the  poet's  wand  ! 

The  sonnet  is  a  crown,  whereof  the  rhymes 
Are  for  Thought's  purest  gold  the  jewel-stones  ; 
But  shapes  and  echoes  that  are  never  done 
Will  haunt  the  workshop,  as  regret  sometimes 
Will  bring  with  human  yearning  to  sad  thrones 
The  crash  of  battles  that  are  never  won. 


ft? 


VERLAINE 

WHY  do  you  dig  like  long- clawed  scavengers 

To  touch  the  covered  corpse  of  him  that  fled 

The  uplands  for  the  fens,  and  rioted 

Like  a  sick  satyr  with  doom's  worshippers? 

Come  !  let  the  grass  grow  there  ;  and  leave  his  verse 

To  tell  the  story  of  the  life  he  led. 

Let  the  man  go :  let  the  dead  flesh  be  dead, 

And  let  the  worms  be  its  biographers. 

Song  sloughs  away  the  sin  to  find  redress 
In  art's  complete  remembrance  :  nothing  clingg 
For  long  but  laurel  to  the  stricken  brow 
That  felt  the  Muse's  finger;  nothing  less 
Than  hell's  fulfilment  of  the  end  of  things 
Can  blot  the  star  that  shines  on  Paris  now 


68 


SONNET 

WHEN  we  can  all  so  excellently  give 

The  measure  of  love's  wisdom  with  a  blow,  — 

Why  can  we  not  in  turn  receive  it  so, 

And  end  this  murmur  for  the  life  we  live  ? 

And  when  we  do  so  frantically  strive 

To  win  strange  faith,  why  do  we  shun  to  know 

That  in  love's  elemental  over-glow 

God's  wholeness  gleams  with  light  superlative  ? 

Oh,  brother  men,  if  you  have  eyes  at  all, 
Look  at  a  branch,  a  bird,  a  child,  a  rose,  — 
Or  anything  God  ever  made  that  grows,  — 
Nor  let  the  smallest  vision  of  it  slip, 
Till  you  can  read,  as  on  Belshazzar's  wall. 
The  glory  of  eternal  partnership  ! 


69 


.SUPREMACY 

THERE  is  a  drear  and  lonely  tract  of  hell 
From  all  the  common  gloom  removed  afar : 
A  flat,  sad  land  it  is,  where  shadows  are, 
Whose  lorn  estate  my  verse  may  never  tell. 
I  walked  among  them  and  I  knew  them  well : 
Men  I  had  slandered  on  life's  little  star 
For  churls  and  sluggards  ;  and  I  knew  the  scar 
Upon  their  brows  of  woe  ineffable. 

But  as  I  went  majestic  on  my  way, 
Into  the  dark  they  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Till,  with  a  shaft  of  God's  eternal  day, 
The  dream  of  all  my  glory  was  undone,  — 
And,  with  a  fool's  importunate  dismay, 
I  heard  the  dead  men  singing  in  the  sun, 


70 


THE   NIGHT    BEFORE 

LOOK  you,  Dominie ;  look  you,  and  listen  ! 
Look  in  my  face,  first ;   search  every  line  there ; 
Mark  every  feature,  —  chin,  lip,  and  forehead  ! 
Look  in  my  eyes,  and  tell  me  the  lesson 
You  read  there  ;  measure  my  nose,  and  tell  me 
Where  I  am  wanting !     A  man's  nose,  Dominie, 
Is  often  the  cast  of  his  inward  spirit ; 
So  mark  mine  well.      But  why  do  you  smile  so  ? 
Pity,  or  what  ?     Is  it  written  all  over, 
This  face  of  mine,  with  a  brute's  confession? 
Nothing  but  sin  there  ?  nothing  but  hell-scars  ? 
Or  is  it  because  there  is  something  better  — 
A  glimmer  of  good,  maybe  —  or  a  shadow 
Of  something  that 's  followed  me  down  from  child 
hood  — 

Followed  me  all  these  years  and  kept  me, 
Spite  of  my  slips  and  sins  and  follies, 
Spite  of  my  last  red  sin,  my  murder,  — 
Just  out  of  hell  ?     Yes  ?  something  of  that  kind  ? 
And  you  smile  for  that  ?    You  're  a  good  man,  Dominie, 
The  one  good  man  in  the  world  who  knows  me, — 
My  one  good  friend  in  a  world  that  mocks  me, 
Here  in  this  hard  stone  cage.      But  I  leave  it 
To-morrow.     To-morrow  !     My  God  !  am  I  crying  ? 
Are  these  things  tears  ?     Tears !     What  !  am  I  fright 
ened  ? 

I,  who  swore  I  should  go  to  the  scaffold 
With  big  strong  steps,  and  —    No  more.    I  thank  you, 
71 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

But  no  —  I  am  all  right  now  !     No  !  —  listen  ! 
I  am  here  to  be  hanged  ;  to  be  hanged  to-morrow 
At  six  o'clock,  when  the  sun  is  rising. 
And  why  am  I  here  ?     Not  a  soul  can  tell  you 
But  this  poor  shivering  thing  before  you, 
This  fluttering  wreck  of  the  man  God  made  him, 
For  God  knows  what  wild  reason.      Hear  me, 
nd  learn  from  my  lips  the  truth  of  my  story. 

ere  's  nothing  strange  in  what  I  shall  tell  you, 
Nothing  mysterious,  nothing  unearthly,  — 
But  damnably  human,  —  and  you  shall  hear  it.) 
Not  one  of  those  little  black  lawyers  had  guessed  it ; 
The  judge,  with  his  big  bald  head,  never  knew  it ; 
And   the  jury    (God   rest   their  poor  souls!)    never 

dreamed  it. 

Once  there  were  three  in  the  world  who  could  tell  it ; 
Now  there  are  two.  There  '  11  be  two  to-morrow,  — 
You,  my  friend,  and  —  But  there  's  the  story  :  — 

'when  I  was  a  boy  the  world  was  heaven. 
I  never  knew  then  that  the  men  and  the  women 
Who  petted  and  called  me  a  brave  big  fellow 
Were  ever  less  happy  than  I ;  but  wisdom  — 
Which    comes   with    the    years,    you    know  —  soon 

showed  me 

The  secret  of  all  my  glittering  childhood, 
The  broken  key  to  the  fairies'  castle 
That  held  my  life  in  the  fresh,  glad  season 
72 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

When  I  was  the  king  of  the  earth.      Then  slowly  — 

And  yet  so  swiftly  !  —  there  came  the  knowledge 

That  the  marvellous  life  I  had  lived  was  my  life ; 

That  the  glorious  world  I  had  loved  was  my  world ; 

And  that  every  man,  and  every  woman, 

And  every  child  was  a  different  being, 

Wrought  with  a  different  heat,  and  fired 

With  passions  born  of  a  single  spirit ; 

That  the  pleasure  I  felt  was  not  their  pleasure, 

Nor  my  sorrow  —  a  kind  of  nameless  pity 

For  something,  I  knew  not  what  —  their  sorrow. 

And  thus  was  I  taught  my  first  hard  lesson,  — 

The  lesson  we  suffer  the  most  in  learning  : 

That  a  happy  man  is  a  man  forgetful 

Of  all  the  torturing  ills  around  him. 

When  or  where  I  first  met  the  woman 

I  cherished  and  made  my  wife,  no  matter. 

Enough  to  say  that  I  found  her  and  kept  her 

Here  in  my  heart  with  as  pure  a  devotion 

ever  Christ  felt  for  his  brothers.      Forgive  me 
For  naming  His  name  in  your  patient  presence; 
But  I  feel  my  words,  and  the  truth  I  utter 
Is  God's  own  truth.      I  loved  that  woman,  — 
Not  for  her  face,  but  for  something  fairer, 
Something  diviner,  I  thought,  than  beauty  : 
I  loved  the  spirit  —  the  human  something 
That  seemed  to  chime  with  my  own  condition, 
And  make  soul-music  when  we  were  together ; 
73 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

And  we  were  never  apart,  from  the  moment 
My  eyes  flashed  into  her  eyes  the  message 
That  swept  itself  in  a  quivering  answer 
Back  through  my  strange  lost  being.      My  pulses 
Leapt  with  an  aching  speed  ;  and  the  measure 
Of  this  great  world  grew  small  and  smaller, 
Till  it  seemed  the  sky  and  the  land  and  the  ocean 
Closed  at  last  in  a  mist  all  golden 
Around  us  two.      And  we  stood  for  a  season 
Like  gods  outflung  from  chaos,  dreaming 
That  we  were  the  king  and  the  queen  of  the  fire 
That  reddened  the  clouds  of  love  that  held  us 
Blind  to  the  new  world  soon  to  be  ours  — 
Ours  to  seize  and  sway.     The  passion 
Of  that  great  love  was  a  nameless  passion, 
Bright  as  the  blaze  of  the  sun  at  noonday, 
Wild  as  the  flames  of  hell  ;  but,  mark  you, 
Never  a  whit  less  pure  for  its  fervor. 
The  baseness  in  me  (for  I  was  human) 
Burned  like  a  worm,  and  perished  ;   and  nothing 
Was  left  me  then  but  a  soul  that  mingled 
Itself  with  hers,  and  swayed  and  shuddered 
In  fearful  triumph.      When  I  consider 
That  helpless  love  and  the  cursed  folly 
That  wrecked  my  life  for  the  sake  of  a  woman 
Who  broke  with  a  laugh  the  chains  of  her  marriage 
(Whatever  the  word  may  mean),  I  wonder 
If  all  the  woe  was  her  sin,  or  whether 
74 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

The  chains  themselves  were  enough  to  lead  her 
In  love's  despite  to  break  them.    .    .    .   Sinners 
And  saints  —  I  say  —  are  rocked  in  the  cradle, 
But  never  are  known  till  the  will  within  them 
Speaks  in  its  own  good  time.      So  I  foster 
Even  to-night  for  the  woman  who  wronged  me, 
Nothing  of  hate,  nor  of  love,   but  a  feeling 
Of  still  regret ;  for  the  man  —     But  hear  me, 
And  judge  for  yourself:  — 

For  a  time  the  seasons 
Changed  and  passed  in  a  sweet  succession 
That  seemed  to  me  like  an  endless  music : 
Life-was  a  rolling  psalm,  and  the  choirs 
Of  God  were  glad  for  our  love.      I  fancied 
All  this,  and  more  than  I  dare  to  tell  you 
To-night,  —  yes,  more  than  I  dare  to  remember  ; 
And    then  —  well,    the   music    stopped.  \    There    are 
_  moments 

In  all  men's  lives  when  it  stops,  I  fancy,  — 
Or  seems  to  stop,  —  till  it  comes  to  cheer  them 
Again  with  a  larger  sound.      The  curtain 
Of  life  just  then  is  lifted  a  little 
To  give  to  their  sight  new  joys  —  new  sorrows  — 
Or  nothing  at  all,  sometimes.      I  was  watching 
The  slow,  sweet  scenes  of  a  golden  picture, 
Flushed  and  alive  with  a  long  delusion 
That  made  the  murmur  of  home,  when  I  shuddered 
75 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

And  felt  like  a  knife  that  awful  silence 
TThat  comes  when  the  music  goes  —  forever. 
T'he  truth  came  over  my  life  like  a  darkness 
Over  a  forest  where  one  man  wanders, 
Worse  than  alone.      For  a  time  I  staggered 
And  stumbled  on  with  a  weak  persistence 
After  the  phantom  of  hope  that  darted 
And  dodged  like  a  frightened  thing  before  me, 
To  quit  me  at  last,  and  vanish.      Nothing 
Was  left  me  then  but  the  curse  of  living 
And  bearing  through  all  my  days  the  fever 
And  thirst  of  a  poisoned  love.   \  Were  I  stronger, 
Or  weaker,  perhaps  my  scornnad  saved  me, 
Given  me  strength  to  crush  my  sorrow 
With  hate  for  her  and  the  world  that  praised  her  — 
To  have  left  her,  then  and  there  —  to  have  conquered 
That  old  false  life  with  a  new  and  a  wiser,  — 
Such  things  are  easy  in  words.      You  listen, 
And  frown,  I  suppose,  that  I  never  mention 
That  beautiful  word,  forgive  !  —  I  forgave  her 
First  of  all ;  and  I  praised  kind  Heaven 
That  I  was  a  brave,  clean  man  to  do  it ; 
And  then  I  tried  to  forget.     Forgiveness  ! 
What  does  it  mean  when  the  one  forgiven 
Shivers  and  weeps  and  clings  and  kisses 
The  credulous  fool  that  holds  her,  and  tells  him 
A  thousand  things  of  a  good  man's  mercy, 
And  then  slips  off  with  a  laugh  and  plunges 
76 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE 

Back  to  the  sin  she  has  quit  for  a  season, 

To  tell  him  that  hell  and  the  world  are  better 

For  her  than  a  prophet's  heavenj     Believe  me, 

The  love  that  dies  ere  its  flames  are  wasted 

In  search  of  an  alien  soul  is  better, 

Better  by  far  than  the  lonely  passion 

That  burns  back  into  the  heart  that  feeds  it. 

For  I  loved  her  still,  and  the  more  she  mocked  me,  - 

Fooled  with  her  endless  pleading  promise 

Of  future  faith,  —  the  more  I  believed  her 

The  penitent  thing  she  seemed  ;  and  the  stronger 

Her  choking  arms  and  her  small  hot  kisses 

Bound  me  and  burned  my  brain  to  pity, 

The  more  she  grew  to  the  heavenly  creature 

That  brightened  the  life  I  had  lost  forever. 

The  truth  was  gone  somehow  for  the  moment ; 

The  curtain  fell  for  a  time  ;  and  I  fancied 

We  were  again  like  gods  together, 

Loving  again  with  the  old  glad  rapture. 

But  scenes  like  these,  too  often  repeated, 

Failed  at  last,  and  her  guile  was  wasted. 

I  made  an  end  of  her  shrewd  caresses 

And  told  her  a  few  straight  words.      She  took  them 

Full  at  their  worth  —  and  the  farce  was  over. 

4    fAt  first  my  dreams  of  the  past  upheld  me, 
But  they  were  a  short  support  :  the  present 
Pushed  them  away,  and  I  fell.      The  mission 

77 


JT 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

Of  life  (whatever  it  was)  was  blasted  ; 
My  game  was  lost.      And  I  met  the  winner 
Of  that  foul  deal  as  a  sick  slave  gathers 
His  painful  strength  at  the  sight  of  his  master  ; 
And  when  he  was  past  I  cursed  him,  fearful 
Of  that  strange  chance  which  makes  us  mighty 
Or  mean,  or  both.      I  cursed  him  and  hated 
The  stones  he  pressed  with  his  heel ;  I  followed 
His  easy  march  with  a  backward  envy, 
And  cursed  myself  for  the  beast  within  me. 
But  pride  is  the  master  of  love,  and  the  vision 
Ofjhose  old  days  grew  faint  and  fainter  : 
he  counterfeit  wife  my  mercy  sheltered 
Was  nothing  now  but  a  woman,  —  a  woman 
Out  of  my  way  and  out  of  my  nature. 
My  battle  with  blinded  love  was  over,"""" 
My  battle  with  aching  pride  beginning. 
If  I  was  the  loser  at  first,  I  wonder 
If  I  am  the  winner  now  !  .  .  .  I  doubt  it. 
My  life  is  a  losing  game ;  and  to-morrow  — 
To-morrow  !  —  Christ !  did  I  say  to-morrow  ?  .  . 
Is  your  brandy  good  for  death  ? .  .  .  There,  —  listen :  — • 

When  loves  goes  out,  and  a  man  is  driven 
To  shun  mankind  for  the  scars  that  make  him 
A  joke  for  all  chattering  tongues,  he  carries 
A  double  burden.      The  woes  I  suffered 
After  that  hard  betrayal  made  me 
78 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

Pity,  at  first,  all  breathing  creatures 

On  this  bewildered  earth.     I  studied 

Their  faces  and  made  for  myself  the  story 

Of  all  their  scattered  lives.      Like  brothers 

And  sisters  they  seemed  to  me  then  ;  and  I  nourished 

A  stranger  friendship  wrought  in  my  fancy 

Between  those  people  and  me.      But  somehow, 

As  time  went  on,  there  came  queer  glances 

Out  of  their  eyes,  and  the  shame  that  stung  me 

Harassed  my  pride  with  a  crazed  impression 

That  every  face  in  the  surging  city 

Was  turned  to  me ;  and  I  saw  sly  whispers, 

Now  and  then,  as  I  walked  and  wearied 

My  wasted  life  twice  over  in  bearing 

With  all  my  sorrow  the  sorrows  of  others,  — 

Till  I  found  myself  their  fool.      Then  I  trembled,  — 

A  poor  scared  thing,  —  and  their  prying  faces 

Told  me  the  ghastly  truth  :   they  were  laughing 

At  me  and  my  fate.      My  God,  I  could  feel  it  — 

That  laughter  !     And  then  the  children  caught  it  ; 

And  I,  like  a  struck  dog,  crept  and  listened. 

And  then  when  I  met  the  man  who  had  weakened 

A  woman's  love  to  his  own  desire, 

It  seemed  to  me  that  all  hell  were  laughing 

In  fiendish  concert!     I  was  their  victim  — 

And  his,  and  hate's.      And  there  was  the  struggle; 

As  long  as  the  earth  we  tread  holds  something 

A  tortured  heart  can  love,  the  meaning 

79 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

Of  life  is  not  wholly  blurred  ;  but  after 
The  last  loved  thing  in  the  world  has  left  us, 
We  know  the  triumph  of  hate.      The  glory 
Of  good  goes  out  forever  ;  the  beacon 
Of  sin  is  the  light  that  leads  us  downward  — 
Down  to  the  fiery  end.      The  road  runs 
Right  through  hell  ;  and  the  souls  that  follow 
The  cursed  ways  where  its  windings  lead  them 
Suffer  enough,  I  say,  to  merit 
All  grace  that  a  God  can  give.  —  The  fashion 
Of  our  belief  is  to  lift  all  beings 
Born  for  a  life  that  knows  no  struggle 
In  sin' s  tight  snares  to  eternal  glory  — 
All  apart  from  the  branded  millions 
Who  carry  through  life  their  faces  graven 
With  sure  brute  scars  that  tell  the  story 
Of  their  foul,  fated  passions.      Science 
Has  yet  no  salve  to  smooth  or  soften 
The  cradle-scars  of  a  tyrant*  s  visage  ; 
No  drug  to  purge  from  the  vital  essence 
Of  souls  the  sleeping  venom.      Virtue 
May  flower  in  hell,  when  its  roots  are  twisted 
And  wound  with  the  roots  of  vice ;  but  the  stronger 
Never  is  known  till  there  comes  that  battle 
With  sin  to  prove  the  victor.      Perilous 
Things  are  these  demons  we  call  our  passions : 
Slaves  are  we  of  their  roving  fancies, 
Fools  of  their  devilish  glee.  —  You  think  me, 
So 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

I  know,  in  this  maundering  way  designing 

To  lighten  the  load  of  my  guilt  and  cast  it 

Half  on  the  shoulders  of  God.      But  hear  me ! 

I  'm  partly  a  man,  —  for  all  my  weakness,  — 

If  weakness  it  were  to  stand  and  murder 

Before  men's  eyes  the  man  who  had  murdered 

Me,  and  driven  my  burning  forehead 

With  horns  for  the  world  to  laugh  at.      Trust  me ! 

And  try  to  believe  my  words  but  a  portion 

Of  what  God's  purpose  made  me!     The  coward 

Within  me  cries  for  this  ;  and  I  beg  you 

Now,  as  I  come  to  the  end,  to  remember 

That  women  and  men  are  on  earth  to  travel 

All  on  a  different  road.      Hereafter 

The  roads  may  meet.   ...   I  trust  in  something  — 

I  know  not  what.    .    .   . 

Well,  this  was  the  way  of  it :  — 
Stung  with  the  shame  and  the  secret  fury 
That  comes  to  the  man  who  has  thrown  his  pittance 
Of  self  at  a  traitor's  feet,  I  wandered 
Weeks  and  weeks  in  a  baffled  frenzy, 
Till  at  last  the  devil  spoke.     I  heard  him, 
And  laughed  at  the  love  that  strove  to  touch  me,  — 
The  dead,  lost  love  ;  and  I  gripped  the  demon 
Close  to  my  breast,  and  held  him,  praising 
The  fates  and  the  furies  that  gave  me  the  courage 
To  follow  his  wild  command.     Forgetful 
6  8 1 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

Of  all  to  come  when  the  work  was  over, — 
There  came  to  me  then  no  stony  vision 
Of  these  three  hundred  days,  —  I  cherished 
An  awful  joy  in  my  brain.      I  pondered 
And  weighed  the  thing  in  my  mind,  and  gloried 
In  life  to  think  that  I  was  to  conquer 
Death  at  his  own  dark  door,  —  and  chuckled 
To  think  of  it  done  so  cleanly.      One  evening 
I  knew  that  my  time  had  come.      I  shuddered 
A  little,  but  rather  for  doubt  than  terror, 
And  followed  him,  —  led  by  the  nameless  devil 
I  worshipped  and  called  my  brother.      The  city 
Shone  like  a  dream  that  night ;  the  windows 
Flashed  with  a  piercing  flame,  and  the  pavements 
Pulsed  and  swayed  with  a  warmth  —  or  something 
That  seemed  so  then  to  my  feet  —  and  thrilled  me 
With  a  quick,  dizzy  joy  ;  and  the  women 
And  men,  like  marvellous  things  of  magic, 
Floated  and  laughed  and  sang  by  my  shoulder, 
Sent  with  a  wizard  motion.      Through  it 
And  over  and  under  it  all  there  sounded 
A  murmur  of  life,  like  bees ;  and  I  listened 
And  laughed  again  to  think  of  the  flower 
'  AThat  grew,  blood-red,  for  me  !   .    .   4JThis  fellow 
Was  one  of  the  popular  sort  who  flourish 
,  Unruffled  where  gods  would  fall.      For  a  conscience 
j  He  carried  a  snug  deceit  that  made  him 
•  The  man  of  the  time  and  the  place,  whatever 
82 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE 

The  time  or  the  place  might  be.      Were  he  sounding, 
With  a  genial  craft  that  cloaked  its  purpose, 
Nigh  to  itself,  the  depth  of  a  woman 
Fooled  with  his  brainless  art,  or  sending 
The  midnight  home  with  songs  and  bottles,  — 
The  cad  was  there,  and  his  ease  forever 
Shone  with  the  smooth  and  slippery  polish 
That  tells  the  snake.      That  night  he  drifted 
Into  an  up-town  haunt  and  ordered  — 
Whatever  it  was  —  with  a  soft  assurance 
That  made  me  mad  as  I  stood  behind  him, 
Gripping  his  death,  and  waited.      Coward, 
I  think,  is  the  name  the  world  has  given 
To  men  like  me  ;  but  I  '11  swear  I  never 
Thought  of  my  own  disgrace  when  I  shot  him  — 
Yes,  in  the  back,  —  I  know  it,  I  know  it 
_Now  ;  but  what  if  I  do  ?  .°)i   .   As  I  watched  him 
Lying  there  dead  in  the  scattered  sawdust, 
Wet  with  a  day's  blown  froth,  I  noted 
That  things  were  still  ;  that  the  walnut  tables, 
Where  men  but  a  moment  before  were  sitting, 
Were  gone  ;  that  a  screen  of  something  around  me 
Shut  them  out  of  my  sight.      But  the  gilded 
Signs  of  a  hundred  beers  and  whiskeys 
Flashed  from  the  walls  above,  and  the  mirrors 
And  glasses  behind  the  bar  were  lighted 
In  some  strange  way,  and  into  my  spirit 
A  thousand  shafts  of  terrible  fire 
83 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE 

Burned  like  death,  and  I  fell.     The  story 
Of  what  came  then,  you  know. 

But  tell  me, 

What  does  the  whole  thing  mean  ?    What  are  we,  — 
Slaves  of  an  awful  ignorance  ?  puppets 
Pulled  by  a  fiend  ?  or  gods,  without  knowing  it  ? 
Do  we  shut  from  ourselves  our  own  salvation,  — — 
Or  what  do  we  do  !     I  tell  you,  Dominie, 
There  are  times  in  the  lives  of  us  poor  devils 
When  heaven  and  hell  get  mixed.     Though  conscience 
May  come  like  a  whisper  of  Christ  to  warn  us 
Away  from  our  sins,  it  is  lost  or  laughed  at,  — 
And  then  we  fall.     And  for  all  who  have  fallen  — 
Even  for  him  —  I  hold  no  malice, 
Nor  much  compassion  :  a  mightier  mercy 
Than  mine  must  shrive  him.  —  And  I  —  I  am  going 
Into  the  light  ?  —  or  into  the  darkness  ? 
Why  do  I  sit  through  these  sickening  hours, 
And  hope  ?     Good  God !  are  they  hours  ?  —  hours  ? 
Yes  1     I  am  done  with  days.      And  to-morrow  — 
We    two    may    meet!      To-morrow! — To-mor 
row!  . 


84 


WALT   WHITMAN 

THE  master-songs  are  ended,  and  the  man 
That  sang  them  is  a  name.     And  so  is  God 
A  name  ;  and  so  is  love,  and  life,  and  death, 
And  everything.      But  we,  who  are  too  blind 
To  read  what  we  have  written,  or  what  faith 
Has  written  for  us,  do  not  understand : 
We  only  blink,  and  wonder. 

Last  night  it  was  the  song  that  was  the  man, 

But  now  it  is  the  man  that  is  the  song. 

We  do  not  hear  him  very  much  to-day  : 

His  piercing  and  eternal  cadence  rings 

Too  pure  for  us  —  too  powerfully  pure, 

Too  lovingly  triumphant,  and  too  large  ; 

B"Qt  there  are  some  that  hear  him,  and  they  know 

That  he  shall  sing  to-morrow  for  all  men, 

And  that  all  time  shall  listen. 

The  master-songs  are  ended  ?     Rather  say 

No  songs  are  ended  that  are  ever  sung, 

And  that  no  names  are  dead  names.     When  we  write 

Men's  letters  on  proud  marble  or  on  sand, 

We  write  them  there  forever. 


THE     CHORUS     OF     OLD     MEN    IIS 
".EGEUS" 

YE  gods  that  have  a  home  beyond  the  world, 

Ye  that  have  eyes  for  all  man's  agony, 

Ye  that  have  seen  this  woe  that  we  have  seen,  — 

Look  with  a  just  regard, 

And  with  an  even  grace, 

Here  on  the  shattered  corpse  of  a  shattered  king, 

Here  on  a  suffering  world  where  men  grow  old 

And  wander  like  sad  shadows  till,  at  last, 

Out  of  the  flare  of  life, 

Out  of  the  whirl  of  years, 

Into  the  mist  they  go, 

Into  the  mist  of  death. 

O  shades  of  you  that  loved  him  long  before 

The  cruel  threads  of  that  black  sail  were  spun, 

May  loyal  arms  and  ancient  welcomings 

Receive  him  once  again 

Who  now  no  longer  moves 

Here  in  this  flickering  dance  of  changing  days, 

Where  a  battle  is  lost  and  won  for  a  withered  wreath, 

And  the  black  master  Death  is  over  all, 

To  chill  with  his  approach, 

To  level  with  his  touch, 

The  reigning  strength  of  youth, 

The  fluttered  heart  of  age. 


86 


THE  CHORUS  OF  OLD  MEN  IN 


Woe  for  the  fateful  day  when  Delphi's  word  was  lost  —  • 

Woe  for  the  loveless  prince  of  ^Ethra's  line  ! 

Woe   for  a  father's   tears  and   the  curse  of  a   king's 

release  — 

Woe  for  the  wings  of  pride  and  the  shafts  of  doom  !  — 
And  thou,  the  saddest  wind 
That  ever  blew  from  Crete, 

Sing  the  fell  tidings  back  to  that  thrice  unhappy  ship  !  — 
Sing  to  the  western  flame, 
Sing  to  the  dying  foam, 

A  dirge  for  the  sundered  years  and  a  dirge  for  the  years 
,      to  be  ! 

Better  his  end  had  been  as  the  end  of  a  cloudless  day, 
Bright,  by  the  word  of  Zeus,  with  a  golden  star, 
Wrought  of  a  golden  fame,  and  flung  to  the  central  sky, 
To  gleam  on  a  stormless  tomb  for  evermore  :  — 
Whether  or  not  there  fell 
To  the  touch  of  an  alien  hand 

The  sheen  of  his  purple  robe  and  the  shine  of  his  diadem, 
Better  his  end  had  been 
To  die  as  an  old  man  dies,  — 

But  the  fates  are  ever  the  fates,  and  a  crown  is  ever  a 
crown. 


THE   WILDERNESS 

COME  away!  come  away!  there's  a  frost  along  the 

marshes, 
And  a  frozen  wind  that  skims  the  shoal  where  it  shakes 

the  dead  black  water  ; 
There's  a  moan   across  the   lowland  and  a  wailing 

through  the  woodland 
Of  a  dirge  that  sings  to  send  us  back  to  the  arms  of 

those  that  love  us. 
There  is  nothing  left  but  ashes  now  where  the  crimson 

chills  of  autumn 
Put  off  the  summer's  languor  with  a  touch  that  made 

us  glad 
For  the  glory  that  is  gone  from  us,  with  a  flight  we 

cannot  follow, 
To  the  slopes  of  other  valleys  and  the  sounds  of  other 

shores. 

Come  away  !  come  away !  you  can  bear  them  calling, 

calling. 

Calling  us  to  come  to  them,  and  roam  no  more. 
Over  there  beyond  the  ridges  and  the  land  that  lies 

between  us, 
There  's  an  old  song  calling  us  to  come  ! 

Come  away !  come  away  !  —  for  the  scenes  we  leave 

behind  us 
Are  barren  for  the  lights  of  home  and  a  flame  that 's 

young  forever  ; 

88 


THE  WILDERNESS 

And  the  lonely  trees  around  us  creak  the  warning  of  the 

night-wind, 
That  love  and  all  the  dreams  of  love  are  away  beyond 

the  mountains. 
The  songs  that  call  for  us  to-night,  they  have  called 

for  men  before  us, 
And  the  winds  that  blow  the  message,  they  have  blown 

ten  thousand  years; 
But  this  will  end  our  wander-time,  for  we  know  the 

joy  that  waits  us 
In    the   strangeness    of  home-coming,  and  a  faithful 

woman's  eyes. 

Come  away  !  come  away  !  there  is  nothing  now  to  cheer 

us  — 

Nothing  now  to  comfort  us,  but  love's  road  home :  — 
Over  there  beyond  the  darkness  there 's  a  window  gleams 

to  greet  usy 
And  a  warm  hearth  waits  for  us  within. 

Come  away  !  come  away  !  —  or  the  roving-fiend  will 

hold  us, 
And  make  us  all   to  dwell  with    him  to  the  end  of 

human  faring  : 
There  are  no  men  yet  can  leave  him  when  his  hands 

are  clutched  upon  them, 
There  are  none  will  own  his  enmity,  there  are  none 

will  call  him  brother. 


THE  WILDERNESS 

So  we  Ml  be  up  and  on  the  way,  and  the  less  we  brag 

the  better 
For  the  freedom  that  God  gave  us  and  the  dread  we  do 

not  know  :  — 
The  frost  that  skips  the  willow-leaf  will  again  be  back 

to  blight  it, 
And  the  doom  we  cannot  fly  from  is  the  doom  we  do 

not  see. 

Come   away!   come   away!  there   are    dead  men  all 

around  us  — 

Frozen  men  that  mock  us  with  a  wild,  hard  laugh 
That  shrieks  and  sinks   and  whimpers  in   the  shrill 

November  rushes, 
And  the  long  fall  wind  on  the  lake. 


90 


OCTAVES 

I 

To  get  at  the  eternal  strength  of  things, 
And  fearlessly  to  make  strong  songs  of  it, 
Is,  to  my  mind,  the  mission  of  that  man 
The  world  would  call  a  poet.      He  may  sing 
But  roughly,  and  withal  ungraciously  ; 
But  if  he  touch  to  life  the  one  right  chord 
Wherein  God's  music  slumbers,  and  awake 
To  truth  one  drowsed  ambition,  he  sings  well. 


OCTAVES 

II 

WE  thrill  too  strangely  at  the  master's  touch  ; 
We  shrink  too  sadly  from  the  larger  self 
Which  for  its  own  completeness  agitates 
And  undetermines  us;  we  do  not  feel  — 
We  dare  not  feel  it  yet  —  the  splendid  shame 
Of  uncreated  failure  ;  we  forget, 
The  while  we  groan,  that  God's  accomplishment 
Is  always  and  unfailingly  at  hand. 


OCTAVES 
III 

To  mortal  ears  the  plainest  word  may  ring 
Fantastic  and  unheard-of,  and  as  false 
And  out  of  tune  as  ever  to  our  own 
Did  ring  the  prayers  of  man-made  maniacs ; 
But  if  that  word  be  the  plain  word  of  Truth, 
It  leaves  an  echo  that  begets  itself, 
Persistent  in  itself  and  of  itself, 
Regenerate,  reiterate,  replete. 


93 


OCTAVES 
IV 

TUMULTUOUSLY  void  of  a  clean  scheme 
Whereon  to  build,  whereof  to  formulate, 
The  legion  life  that  riots  in  mankind 
Goes  ever  plunging  upward,  up  and  down, 
Most  like  some  crazy  regiment  at  arms, 
Undisciplined  of  aught  but  Ignorance, 
And  ever  led  resourcelessly  along 
To  brainless  carnage  by  drunk  trumpeters. 


OCTAVES 


To  me  the  groaning  of  world-worshippers 
Rings  like  a  lonely  music  played  in  hell 
By  one  with  art  enough  to  cleave  the  walls 
Of  heaven  with  his  cadence,  but  without 
The  wisdom  or  the  will  to  comprehend 
The  strangeness  of  his  own  perversity, 
And  all  without  the  courage  to  deny 
The  profit  and  the  pride  of  his  defeat. 


OCTAVES 

VI 

WHILE  we  are  drilled  in  error,  we  are  lost 
Alike  to  truth  and  usefulness.      We  think 
We  are  great  warriors  now,  and  we  can  brag 
Like  Titans ;  but  the  world  is  growing  young, 
And  we,  the  fools  of  time,  are  growing  with  it 
We  do  not  fight  to-day,  we  only  die  ; 
We  are  too  proud  of  death,  and  too  ashamed 
Of  God,  to  know  enough  to  be  alive. 


OCTAVES 

VII 

THERE  is  one  battle-field  whereon  we  fall 

Triumphant  and  unconquered  ;  but,  alas ! 

We  are  too  fleshly  fearful  of  ourselves 

To  fight  there  till  our  days  are  whirled  and  blurred 

By  sorrow,  and  the  ministering  wheels 

Of  anguish  take  us  eastward,  where  the  clouds 

Of  human  gloom  are  lost  against  the  gleam 

That  shines  on  Thought's  impenetrable  mail. 


97 


OC1AVES 

VIII 

WHEN  we  shall  hear  no  more  the  cradle-songs 
Of  ages  —  when  the  timeless  hymns  of  Love 
Defeat  them  and  outsound  them  —  we  shall  know 
The  rapture  of  that  large  release  which  all 
Right  science  comprehends ;  and  we  shall  read, 
With  unoppressed  and  unoffended  eyes, 
That  record  of  All-Soul  whereon  God  writes 
In  everlasting  runes  the  truth  of  Him. 


98 


OCTAVES 

IX 

THE  guerdon  of  new  childhood  is  repose  :  — 

Once  he  has  read  the  primer  of  right  thought, 

A  man  may  claim  between  two  smithy  strokes 

Beatitude  enough  to  realize 

God's  parallel  completeness  in  the  vague 

And  incommensurable  excellence 

That  equitably  uncreates  itself 

And  makes  a  whirlwind  of  the  Universe. 


99 


OCTAVES 

X 

THERE  is  no  loneliness :  —  no  matter  where 

We  go,  nor  whence  we  come,  nor  what  good  friends 

Forsake  us  in  the  seeming,  we  are  all 

At  one  with  a  complete  companionship ; 

And  though  forlornly  joyless  be  the  ways 

We  travel,  the  compensate  spirit-gleams 

Of  Wisdom  shaft  the  darkness  here  and  there, 

Like  scattered  lamps  in  unfrequented  streets. 


?oo 


OCTAVES 

XI 

WHEN  one  that  you  and  I  had  all  but  sworn 
To  be  the  purest  thing  God  ever  made 
Bewilders  us  until  at  last  it  seems 
An  angel  has  come  back  restigmatized,  — 
Faith  wavers,  and  we  wonder  what  there  is 
On  earth  to  make  us  faithful  any  more, 
But  never  are  quite  wise  enough  to  know 
The  wisdom  that  is  in  that  wonderment. 


101 


OCTAVES 

XII 

WHERE  does  a  dead  man  go  ?  —  The  dead  man  dies ; 

But  the  free  life  that  would  no  longer  feed 

On  fagots  of  outburned  and  shattered  flesh 

Wakes  to  a  thrilled  invisible  advance, 

Unchained  (or  fettered  else)  of  memory  ; 

And  when  the  dead  man  goes  it  seems  to  me 

'T  were  better  for  us  all  to  do  away 

With  vrrejMTig,  and  be  glad  that  he  is  gone. 


102 


OCTAVES 

XIII 

STILL  through  the  dusk  of  dead,  blank-legended, 
And  unremunerative  years  we  search 
To  get  where  life  begins,  and  still  we  groan 
Because  we  do  not  find  the  living  spark 
Where  no  spark  ever  was ;  and  thus  we  die, 
Still  searching,  like  poor  old  astronomers 
Who  totter  off  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep, 
To  dream  of  un triangulated  stars. 


103 


OCTAVES 

XIV 

WITH  conscious  eyes  not  yet  sincere  enough 
To  pierce  the  glimmered  cloud  that  fluctuates 
Between  me  and  the  glorifying  light 
That  screens  itself  with  knowledge,  I  discern 
The  searching  rays  of  wisdom  that  reach  through 
The  mist  of  shame's  infirm  credulity, 
And  infinitely  wonder  if  hard  words 
Like  mine  have  any  message  for  the  dead. 


104 


OCTAVES 

XV 

I  GRANT  you  friendship  is  a  royal  thing, 

But  none  shall  ever  know  that  royalty 

For  what  it  is  till  he  has  realized 

His  best  friend  in  himself.      'Tis  then,  perforce, 

That  man's  unfettered  faith  indemnifies 

Of  its  own  conscious  freedom  the  old  shame, 

And  love's  revealed  infinitude  supplants 

Of  its  own  wealth  and  wisdom  the  old  scorn. 


105 


OCTAVES 

XVI 

THOUGH  the  sick  beast  infect  us,  we  are  fraught 
Forever  with  indissoluble  Truth, 
Wherein  redress  reveals  itself  divine, 
Transitional,  transcendent.      Grief  and  loss, 
Disease  and  desolation,  are  the  dreams 
Of  wasted  excellence  ;  and  every  dream 
Has  in  it  something  of  an  ageless  fact 
That  flouts  deformity  and  laughs  at  years. 


1 06 


OCTAVES 

XVII 

WE  lack  the  courage  to  be  where  we  are :  — 
We  love  too  much  to  travel  on  old  roads, 
To  triumph  on  old  fields ;  we  love  too  much 
To  consecrate  the  magic  of  dead  things, 
And  yieldingly  to  linger  by  long  walls 
Of  ruin,  where  the  ruinous  moonlight 
That  sheds  a  lying  glory  on  old  stones 
Befriends  us  with  a  wizard's  enmity. 


107 


OCTAVES 

XVIII 

SOMETHING  as  one  with  eyes  that  look  below 
The  battle-smoke  to  glimpse  the  foeman's  charge, 
We  through  the  dust  of  downward  years  may  scan 
The  onslaught  that  awaits  this  idiot  world 
Where  blood  pays  blood  for  nothing,  and  where  life 
Pays  life  to  madness,  till  at  last  the  ports 
Of  gilded  helplessness  be  battered  through 
By  the  still  crash  of  salvatory  steel. 


108 


OCTAVES 

XIX 

To  you  that  sit  with  Sorrow  like  chained  slaves, 
And  wonder  if  the  night  will  ever  come, 
I  would  say  this  :  The  night  will  never  come, 
And  sorrow  is  not  always.      But  my  words 
Are  not  enough  ;  your  eyes  are  not  enough ; 
The  soul  itself  must  insulate  the  Real, 
Or  ever  you  do  cherish  in  this  life  — 
In  this  life  or  in  any  life  —  repose. 


109 


OCTAVES 

XX 

LIKE  a  white  wall  whereon  forever  breaks 

Unsatisfied  the  tumult  of  green  seas, 

Man's  unconjectured  godliness  rebukes 

With  its  imperial  silence  the  lost  waves 

Of  insufficient  grief.      This  mortal  surge 

That  beats  against  us  now  is  nothing  else 

Than  plangent  ignorance.      Truth  neither  shakes 

Nor  wavers ;  but  the  world  shakes,  and  we  shriek. 


no 


OCTAVES 

XXI 

NOR  jewelled  phrase  nor  mere  mellifluous  rhyme 
Reverberates  aright,  or  ever  shall, 
One  cadence  of  that  infinite  plain-song 
Which  is  itself  all  music.      Stronger  notes 
Than  any  that  have  ever  touched  the  world 
Must  ring  to  tell  it  —  ring  like  hammer-blows, 
Right-echoed  of  a  chime  primordial, 
On  anvils,  in  the  gleaming  of  God's  forge. 


1 1 


OCTAVES 

XXII 

THE  prophet  of  dead  words  defeats  himself : 
Whoever  would  acknowledge  and  include 
The  foregleam  and  the  glory  of  the  real, 
Must  work  with  something  else  than  pen  and  ink 
And  painful  preparation  :  he  must  work 
With  unseen  implements  that  have  no  names, 
And  he  must  win  withal,  to  do  that  work, 
Good  fortitude,  clean  wisdom,  and  strong  skill. 


I  12 


OCTAVES 

XXIII 

To  curse  the  chilled  insistence  of  the  dawn 
Because  the  free  gleam  lingers ;  to  defraud 
The  constant  opportunity  that  lives 
Unchallenged  in  all  sorrow  ;   to  forget 
For  this  large  prodigality  of  gold 
That  larger  generosity  of  thought,  — 
These  are  the  fleshly  clogs  of  human  greed, 
The  fundamental  blunders  of  mankind. 


OCTAVES 

XXIV 

FOREBODINGS  are  the  fiends  of  Recreance ; 

The  master  of  the  moment,  the  clean  seer 

Of  ages,  too  securely  scans  what  is, 

Ever  to  be  appalled  at  what  is  not ; 

He  sees  beyond  the  groaning  borough  lines 

Of  Hell,  God's  highways  gleaming,  and  he  knows 

That  Love's  complete  communion  is  the  end 

Of  anguish  to  the  liberated  man. 


OCTAVES 

XXV 

HERE  by  the  windy  docks  I  stand  alone, 
But  yet  companioned.     There  the  vessel  goes, 
And  there  my  friend  goes  with  it ;  but  the  wake 
That  melts  and  ebbs  between  that  friend  and  me 
Love's  earnest  is  of  Life's  all-purposeful 
And  all-triumphant  sailing,  when  the  ships 
Of  Wisdom  loose  their  fretful  chains  and  swing 
Forever  from  the  crumbled  wharves  of  Time. 


TWO   QUATRAINS 

I 
UNITY 

As  eons  of  incalculable  strife 
Are  in  the  vision  of  one  moment  caught, 
So  are  the  common,  concrete  things  of  life 
Divinely  shadowed  on  the  walls  of  Thought. 


H6 


T\VO    QUATRAINS 

II 
PARAPHRASE 

WE  shriek  to  live,  but  no  man  ever  lives 
Till  he  has  rid  the  ghost  of  human  breath  ; 
We  dream  to  die,  but  no  man  ever  dies 
Till  he  has  quit  the  road  that  runs  to  death. 


117 


ROMANCE 

I 
BOYS 

WE  were  all  boys,  and  three  of  us  were  friends ; 
And  we  were  more  than  friends,  it  seemed  to  me :  — 
Yes,  we  were  more  than  brothers  then,  we  three.   .   .    . 
Brothers  ?  .   .  .   But  we  were  boys,  and  there  it  ends. 


118 


ROMANCE 

II 

JAMES   WETHERELL 
WE  never  half  believed  the  stuff 
They  told  about  James  Wetherell ; 
We  always  liked  him  well  enough, 
And  always  tried  to  use  him  well ; 
But  now  some  things  have  come  to  light, 
And  James  has  vanished  from  our  view,  — 
There  isn't  very  much  to  write, 
There  isn't  very  much  to  do. 


THE  TORRENT 

I  FOUND  a  torrent  falling  in  a  glen 

Where  the  sun's  light  shone  silvered  and  leaf-split; 

The  boom,  the  foam,  and  the  mad  flash  of  it 

All  made  a  magic  symphony  ;  but  when 

I  thought  upon  the  coming  of  hard  men 

To  cut  those  patriarchal  trees  away, 

And  turn  to  gold  the  silver  of  that  spray, 

I  shuddered.      Yet  a  gladness  now  and  then 

Did  wake  me  to  myself  till  I  was  glad 

In  earnest,  and  was  welcoming  the  time 

For  screaming  saws  to  sound  above  the  chime 

Of  idle  waters,  and  for  me  to  know 

The  jealous  visionings  that  I  had  had 

Were  steps  to  the  great  place  where  trees  and  torrents  go 


120 


L'ENVOI 

Now  in  a  thought,  now  in  a  shadowed  word, 
Now  in  a  voice  that  thrills  eternity, 
Ever  there  comes  an  onward  phrase  to  me 
Of  some  transcendent  music  I  have  heard  ; 
No  piteous  thing  by  soft  hands  dulcimered, 
No  trumpet  crash  of  blood-sick  victory, 
But  a  glad  strain  of  some  still  symphony 
That  no  proud  mortal  touch  has  ever  stirred. 

There  is  no  music  in  the  world  like  this, 
No  character  wherewith  to  set  it  down, 
No  kind  of  instrument  to  make  it  sing. 
No  kind  of  instrument  ?     Ah,  yes,  there  is ! 
And  after  time  and  place  are  overthrown, 
God's  touch  will  keep  its  one  chord  quivering 


121 


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